


A Change of Scene

by Hedge_witch



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers Series - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Normandy, Escapism, French Politics, Lengthy descriptions of everyone's outfits, Lengthy descriptions of food, M/M, Quitting your job and running off to the countryside, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29826951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedge_witch/pseuds/Hedge_witch
Summary: In which Richelieu quits his job, runs away to Normandy and (somehow) ends up getting himself a boyfriend.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I have written in a very long time, but I guess that's what happens when you spend February half-term in lockdown and decide to amuse yourself by re-watching the BBC's 'Musketeers' and pining over a very specific corner of Normandy. Essentially this is pure self-indulgence tied together with the thinnest of plots, but I hope that it amuses some of you. 
> 
> (I have scattered the odd French term here and there because a) it would have sounded weird if I'd tried to translate them and, b) I am incurably pretentious. I've put a few definitions in the notes at the end.)

In the end it was terrifyingly easy to leave. 

A few phone-calls, an interview with a rather stunned headteacher, a weekend spent packing his furniture (minimal) and the contents of his bookshelves and wardrobe (extensive) into boxes, and that was that. All in all it took little more than a fortnight before the man known throughout the corridors of power as ‘The Cardinal’ slipped out of Paris in the early morning. 

The streets were nearly empty at this hour, the early morning quiet disturbed only by the chime of church bells and the odd delivery van unloading its goods. Armand navigated the roads with practiced ease. This city had been the backdrop to the drama of his life for over twenty years and, while not a man prone to sentiment, he allowed himself to feel a pang of regret for the loss of it and of the man he had been while he had inhabited it. When he arrived at his destination he was to be the notorious ‘Cardinal’ no longer, merely M. Richelieu, an ageing teacher of History and Economics and Social Sciences in Normandy. 

As he exited the périphérique onto the road north Armand had to admit that he felt muscles in his shoulders that had been in tension since his late twenties begin, gradually, to loosen. 

***

Having made an early start, it was barely midday by the time that Armand reached the old house on the edge of the town of Portbail. It seemed grey and quiet in the cloudy, late-summer light, the green paint on the shutters and doors having faded to almost the same colour as the stone of the walls. The gravel on the drive was damp with scattered patches of moss. It took several tries with the key to get the door open and when it finally gave Armand stepped into the gloomy entryway. The overwhelming impression was not a positive one, the house had been long neglected and smelled of darkness and damp. 

However, after a few blinks Armand’s eyes adjusted and he was able to make out the familiar tiled floor and the graceful curve of the staircase leading to the upper storey. He smiled, remembering the few times he had been sent to stay with his aunt here during his childhood summers. This hallway had frequently been the pace he had retreated to from the heat of the day and the rambunctious games of the neighbourhood children, choosing instead to sit on the stairs, leaning his cheek against the cool plaster of the walls and reading whatever book had captured his attention that day. His aunt had never minded, acknowledging his presence with an absent-minded sort of affection that he had appreciated far more than the more demanding attentions of his parents. 

He permitted himself a minute more of reminiscences before turning sharply on his heel and opening the two doors that led into the two rooms on each side of the entryway. It took some effort to force the shutters that covered their windows open to let in the daylight, but once ajar, the fresh air they introduced quickly began to dispel the musty smell within. The rooms were bare of furniture, the contents of the house being sold or passed on to various relatives after his aunt’s death. The house itself had gone to Armand’s mother, who had arranged for basic maintenance to be carried out but had essentially let it alone, until in the course of time, it had been passed down to him. It was a blank canvas, and Armand preferred it that way. 

Leaving the rooms to air further, he proceeded down the hallway, grimacing at the old-fashioned kitchen and already making plans to have the wall separating it and the room that led onto the garden knocked through to make an airier space. 

The garden itself was something of a conundrum, full of weeds and overgrown shrubs, yet so green and quiet within the clasp of the surrounding stone walls. It gave Armand pause. He had been an inveterate city-dweller since his late teens and now this space filled with birdsong and the brush of wind through the trees was his, he didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with it. 

The sound of tires crushing over gravel roused him from his thoughts once again and Armand went out to the front once more to supervise the removal vans. He had made his choices, and what remained now was to manage the consequences of them. 

***

‘Joseph says someone was finally moving in to the old de La Porte place yesterday,’ Constance Bonacieux said over the hiss of the coffee machine as she prepared Jean’s morning hit of caffeine before he headed down to the station. 

‘Oh yes?’ Jean said, with mild interest, ‘is it more second-home-owners?’ 

‘No,’ Constance replied, ‘it was certainly never put up for sale, Joseph thinks someone from the family has moved in.’ 

‘Oh well that’s good,’ Jean said, ‘the place was beginning to look rather run-down and it’ll be better looked after if someone is living there permanently,’ he smiled at Constance and saluted her with his coffee cup, ‘whoever it is, there’s no doubt they will soon be coming around here so that you can get the measure of them.’ 

Constance laughed, secure in the excellence of her cafe and its place at the centre of the life of the town. ‘And you can be sure I will pass on anything I find out about them on to you. Have a good day Jean.’ 

‘You too Constance,’ Jean said, draining his small cup and nodding to the other inhabitants of the cafe as he left. 

Jean de Tréville considered it a professional requirement to never forget a conversation. Therefore, by necessity he had become adept at filing exchanges away in his memory while he dealt with more pressing matters. The brief discussion about the newcomer with Constance was put to the back of his mind but not forgotten as Jean reached the police station and the cacophony of demands upon his time and attention that it contained. (Many of which, he observed, had at least some connection to the newest member of his brigade, young Charles d’Artagnan, who was shaping up to be a talented officer but was still a bit of a loose cannon.) 

It resurfaced again in his memory when he bumped into Porthos in the break room at lunchtime. 

‘I spoke to Constance this morning, apparently there’s someone moving permanently into the de La Porte place,’ Jean said, watching the station’s ancient coffee machine grumble away without holding out much hope for the results, ‘it sounds like the place could do with some work, if Charon and Flea would be interested.’ 

‘Way ahead of you boss,’ Porthos responded easily, using the microwave to heat up two portions of pre-made tagine for himself and Aramis. The smell made Jean’s stomach grumble enviously, ‘Flea texted me this morning, apparently they got an email from the new owner first thing asking for a quote for a whole load of renovations.’ 

Jean whistled, ‘clearly not someone who lets the grass grow under their feet!’ He took a sip of his coffee and winced, ‘did either of them mention the name of the new owner?’ 

Porthos cast Jean a sidelong grin, ‘I thought you’d ask that boss. As a matter of fact they did, it turns out the new owner is going to be starting work at the lycée in September and he goes by the name of Armand de Richelieu.’ 

Jean frowned, ‘that name sounds familiar somehow, but I can’t think where from.’ 

Porthos shrugged, ‘well I’m sure it won’t take you long to figure it out.’ 

In the end, all it took was a quick google search once Jean got back to his desk. While Armand de Richelieu was not a celebrity, it seemed he was the sort of man whose name appeared in more detailed political articles in the major newspapers. The sort of man who gave comments and occasional interviews to magazines specialising in politics and economics. A man whose name was mentioned by others, sometimes under the soubriquet of ‘The Cardinal’ with either admiration or chagrin. In short, the kind of man whose power was not mentioned in headlines, but which made itself felt between the lines of newsprint nonetheless. 

Why the hell such a man was setting up home in rural Normandy remained frustratingly unclear, but of one thing Jean de Tréville was certain, he did not like it at all. 

***

Saturday morning was market day in Portbail and Armand was both overdressed and slightly overwhelmed. 

It was not the busyness of the town that bothered him, even though it was flooded with residents picking up produce from the stall-holders and with tourists enjoying the remnants of their holiday on the last weekend of August. He was used to navigating seamlessly through Paris for heaven’s sake. It was the lack of direction that troubled him, the absence of the smooth urban machine that set people on their paths and made their movements efficient and purposeful. Here, people stood about in the streets in groups, chatting idly, children ran about underfoot and you couldn’t go two steps without the person in front of you halting to examine a camembert or a crate of cherries. Armand, brought to a stop in the thick of the crowd once more, glanced around for an escape route and quickly darted into a comparatively deserted side-street. He paused in the cool shade offered by the buildings there for a moment while he caught his breath. 

Across the square, on the edges of a large group catching up in front of the church Jean watched Armand’s retreat with a faint smirk. It was always entertaining to watch Parisians out of their element and this man was a prime example from the collar of his crisp linen shirt to the tips of his entirely impractical leather boots. Mind you, Jean would be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate the effect of those slim-cut grey trousers, for all that they were woefully out of place in a provincial marketplace. 

Jean dragged his eyes away from the man’s legs and realised with horror that he had allowed his gaze to linger too long. Though the man’s eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, it was obvious he had caught Jean’s gaze and was now looking right back at him. Jean hurriedly averted his eyes, but not before he caught an answering smirk from the man, who then casually sauntered back into the slipstream of the crowd. 

‘I see you’ve spotted our new arrival,’ Constance said, appearing at Jean’s elbow and nearly causing him to jump out of his skin. 

‘God Constance, give an old man a little warning won’t you?’ Jean exclaimed and then, after registering what she had said, asked with a rising sense of unease, ‘what do you mean, our new arrival?’ 

‘Well that was him wasn’t it?’ Constance said matter-of-factly, ‘the man who moved in last week, Armand, something wasn’t it?’ 

‘Armand de Richelieu,’ Jean replied, glancing over the crowd and feeling his stomach sink. 

Meanwhile, unaccountably buoyed up, Armand dived back into the fray, gleefully cutting in front of a family of tourists and snapping up some of the early figs from a nearby stall. They would go delightfully with the sharp goats cheese he had purchased earlier and some of the crisp white wine he had set chilling before he came out. A relaxed lunch that would possibly have been more pleasurable with company, but which he could enjoy while considering the delightful possibility that some of the residents of this little town might be a little more interesting than he had thought. 

***

Ninon might have been well into her thirties and running a school herself, but rentrée still had the same effect on her as it had when she was a child. Each September she looked forward to the shaking off of the lassitude of summer and the refreshing sense of new possibilities, not least the opportunity to get some of her favourite clothes back out of storage. 

The man in front of her evidently shared her feelings in this matter. He was impeccably clad in a charcoal wool-silk mix suit, the trousers tailored to emphasise his long legs and a crisp white shirt. For a final flourish he wore a burgundy handkerchief peeking out of the breast pocket of his jacket, harmonising nicely with its red silk lining. Ninon appreciated the overall effect, but it did little to lessen her sense of wariness around this new addition to her staff. 

She had been frankly staggered and not a little apprehensive when she had received a call from one of her old professors on behalf of his ‘old friend Armand,’ particularly when this old friend turned out to be one of the most important political figures in the country. She had, however desperately needed a new member of staff and to be frank, had also been too insatiably curious not to take the risk of employing him. 

Her worries had eased somewhat with his arrival. Thus far she had to acknowledge that he had conducted himself with a striking lack of arrogance, he had been eager to come in to prepare his classroom ahead of the start of term and had been cordial with all other members of staff he encountered. Ninon was a cautious woman so she still reserved judgement to some extent, but so far it all seemed very promising. 

‘Well that all seems to be in order,’ she said, handing over the folder with the final bits of paperwork,‘your first lesson won’t start for another hour yet so you’ve got some time to grab a coffee and get yourself set up before the hordes descend.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Richelieu replied, ‘I will go and fortify myself. I have a feeling I’ll have to be thinking especially quickly today.’ 

Ninon smiled, ‘It’s always that way at the start of term. Oh, there is just one more thing I wanted to mention. It’s customary for all of the staff to go out for a brief drink at the end of the first day, I think the plan for this evening is to repair to Constance’s cafe at about six, if you’d care to come along.’ 

It was a test of his collegiality and they both knew it. 

Richelieu smiled entirely charmingly, ‘I would be delighted.’ 

As he left her office Ninon cast off a quick text to Constance confirming that she had kept her word and the new arrival would be there this evening for everyone to interrogate. She had a feeling that Richelieu would be more than capable of holding his own. 

***

It was a quarter past six by the time Armand made his way to Constance’s and the place was already buzzing with activity. Most of the patrons were spilling out into the street in small groups of friends and colleagues. It looked like several of the off-duty gendarmes had also taken the opportunity to meet for an apéritif, along with sundry other people Armand recognised from his walks around the town. He caught sight of the lycée staff clustered around two of the larger tables at the back of the bar and was waved over by Ninon, who promptly placed a Kir Normand into his hand. Armand noted approvingly that it was light on the Cassis. He raised his glass to his colleagues and sat down in the chair that was pulled out for him, unable to entirely repress a sigh of relief. 

Dominique, the Biology teacher, grinned at him across the table, ‘so Monsieur de Richelieu, how was your first day?’ 

‘Call me Armand please,’ he replied, sending a smile he had previously used on suspicious civil servants her way. He was aware that he probably presented something of a puzzle for the majority of his colleagues and that all kinds of gossip and speculation was no doubt doing the rounds. It was comforting in a way, as an aspect of his new job that still resembled his old one somewhat.   
He continued, ’as for my day, it was tiring, but also rather invigorating.’ He allowed some more humour to seep into his smile as he glanced around the tables, ‘the students certainly know how to keep you on your toes.’ 

‘They do indeed,’ Ninon said, and the conversation moved on as she leaned over to ask Dominique a question about timetabling before the other woman could continue questioning him. Relieved of scrutiny, Armand cast his eyes around the crowded bar, half listening to the conversation taking place between the Latin and Greek teachers to his left and half studying the people seated around him. 

So it was that he was in a perfect position to observe the passel of gendarmes that entered the bar. They clustered around an upright figure who glanced over the crowd as he came in with piercing blue eyes. As he looked he caught Armand’s gaze and his eyes widened in surprise. They stared at each other for a couple of moments before the man’s attention was caught by one of his companions and he was drawn away towards the bar. 

Well, well, well. Armand took a sip of his drink. That assessing look was familiar even if the uniform wasn’t, here was the man who he’d caught staring at the market last weekend. Armand continued to feign preoccupation with the conversations still going on amongst his neighbours at the table, but focused most of his attention on tracking the progress of the gendarmes at the bar out of the corner of his eye. Soon enough, they were all supplied with drinks and Armand saw them pause and look for seats, before one of the officers, a tall man with dark curly hair, gestured over to the table at which the lycée staff sat. 

Richelieu couldn’t suppress a faint curl of anticipation in his stomach as he watched the group approach, and it sharpened further as Ninon jumped out of her seat with a cry of delight, kissing the blue-eyed man on both cheeks. 

‘Jean! So they managed to drag you out of the office!’ 

The man smiled and rolled his eyes as his companions laughed. ‘Yes Ninon, these reprobates were very insistent I leave for the evening, not that I needed too much persuading.’ He glanced over the table, eyes skipping over Armand. ‘And how was the first day back? The rugby teams were behaving themselves I trust?’ 

‘They know that if they weren’t they’d be answering to us both,’ Ninon said. ‘Oh but I must introduce you to our new member of staff,’ she gestured to Armand, beckoning him over and he carefully slid out of his chair and walked round the back of the crowd to where she sat. 

‘This is Armand de Richelieu,’ Ninon introduced them, ‘he’s teaching History and Political Sciences for us this year, and this is ‘Captain Jean de Treville, his in charge of the local gendarmerie.’ 

‘Captain Treville, it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Armand smiled, reaching out to shake the man’s hand while sizing him up with practiced thoroughness. Up close he was a couple of inches shorter than Armand, though his upright bearing gave him presence. His skin was tanned, his uniform neat even after a long day and his eyes were as sharp and assessing as Armand’s own. 

‘It’s good to meet you,’ Treville, replied, ‘it’s nice to see that someone’s moved in permanently to the de La Porte house.’ 

The unspoken message, I already know who you are and where you live was received by Armand, who let his smile sharpen in response. He was childishly unwilling to break the other man’s gaze and they might have continued sizing each other up for some time. It was at this moment however, that a loud crash sounded from over by the bar, along with an exasperated cry of ‘d’Artagnan!’ 

It drew Treville’s attention immediately, and Armand saw him breathe a heavy sigh before he briefly turned back to him. ‘Your pardon Monsieur,’ Treville said, ‘but it looks like I’m going to have to manage some chaos.’ With a crisp nod and without waiting for a reply, he was gone. 

Armand took one last appreciative look and then turned back to his own business, taking the seat that had been freed up next to Ninon and setting himself the task of charming the rest of the staff. 

***

When Jean reached the bar he found d’Artagnan apologising profusely to an unimpressed Constance, while mopping up two two glasses of beer that his errant elbow had spilled. Aramis, perched upon a bar stool, held up a spare glass that he had miraculously preserved from the fray and pressed it into Jean’s grateful hand. He took a sip, enjoying the cool bitterness of it and feeling himself relax a little for the first time since he’d entered the bar and seen the infernal Parisian ensconced amongst the crowd of teachers. 

‘So,’ Aramis leaned forward, curiosity alight in his eyes, ‘what was our local political hot-shot like?’ 

Jean sighed, ‘you can hardly expect me to get the measure of the man from a two-minute conversation Aramis,’ seeing the other man’s sceptical glance he continued, ‘he seemed like any politician, relatively friendly but with the usual agendas going on underneath.’ 

And rather unfortunately, absolutely my type, he added silently to himself. 

‘But what on earth is he doing here?’ Aramis enquired, face alight with intrigue. 

‘I fear it won’t be too long before we find out,’ Jean said mordantly, taking a long drink of his beer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armand and Jean continue to be very annoyed about how hot they find each other, Armand's 'cat man' tendencies assert themselves and Ninon amuses herself by holding a dinner party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My (non-existent) therapist: 'So what I'm getting from this chapter is that you miss long beach walks, socialising and...outfits?' 
> 
> Me *bursting into tears*: 'Oh my god, *outfits*, remember them?'

Despite Jean’s pessimism, the weeks went past and little more was heard from the new arrival. When he drove past his house he frequently saw Charon and Flea’s van parked outside and judging by the remarks he overheard Porthos making in the breakroom, Richelieu evidently had ambitious plans for the place and was prepared to pay to see them effected quickly. Of the man himself, Jean saw little, only catching the occasional glimpse of his tall frame in the queue for the boulangerie or of the bright flash of a red scarf through the crowd on market days, as the weather grew colder.

The calm status-quo could not last however, and just over a month after their first meeting at the bar, Jean’s evening shift at the station was interrupted by a call from Ninon at the school.

‘Captain Tréville,’ she began crisply, a signal to Jean that this was an official rather than a social call.

‘Madame Larroque,’ he replied, ‘how can I help you?’

‘It is not too serious,’ Ninon said, ‘but we’ve got a problem that bears investigating. Armand and I were on our way out for the day when we heard a noise from the other side of the school site. We had a quick look to see what was going on and it seems that someone has cut a hole in the fence right out at the back of the field.’

‘I see,’ Jean said seriously, ‘please leave everything exactly as you found it, I will be over directly.’

‘Thank you Captain,’ Ninon replied, ‘we will be waiting for you when you get here.’

The lycée was only five minutes walk from the station, so Jean shrugged on his jacket and headed over there, taking d’Artagnan with him. The nights were drawing in so it was dusk by the time they reached the school entrance and found the two teachers awaiting them there. Both of them seemed poised in spite of the lateness of the hour and the circumstances, though Jean noticed, and then tried strenuously to ignore the fact that Richelieu’s hair was in slight disarray as though he had run his fingers through it and his collar was slightly crooked, revealing a few more centimetres of his neck.

 _Pull yourself together_ , Jean admonished himself and took care that his tone was even and professional as he took out his notepad. ‘Madame Larroque, Monsieur de Richelieu, would you mind repeating to me exactly what has taken place this evening?’

‘Of course Captain,’ Ninon replied. ‘We were both staying late to complete some work, I was in my office doing some admin and Armand..?’ She glanced over at him.

‘I was in my classroom finishing some marking.’ Richelieu added.

‘And is it your normal practice to stay here in the evenings and work?’ Jean asked Richelieu, not needing to make the same enquiry of Ninon as he knew full well she liked to stay until the job was done.

‘It is,’ Richelieu confirmed, seeming slightly amused, ‘I prefer to keep my work outside of my home where possible, especially as it is currently undergoing renovations.’

Jean made an affirmative noise and jotted the information down. ‘And how would you describe this noise that you both heard?’

‘It was like a clatter,’ Ninon replied first, ‘as though a series of things fell down at the same time. It seemed to come from the direction of the Science building.’

“I was only aware of a crash,’ Richelieu added, ‘but my classroom was further away than Ninon’s office.’ He paused, and seeing Jean’s mute nod that he should continue, did so, ‘I left my classroom, it was about half past five judging by the clock there and I then met up with Ninon outside in the corridor.’

‘I can confirm the time was exactly half-past,’ Ninon said, nodding, ‘we both decided to take a quick look to see what had happened and walked out across the courtyard to where we thought the noise had come from. Armand was looking out across the field and he saw the hole in the fence first.’

‘It is pretty noticeable, even from a distance,’ Richelieu said.

‘Ok,’ Jean said, putting his notebook away, ‘let’s take a look at it.’

The two teachers led the way across to the field, to their credit, nether hesitating to step out onto the grass in what looked like two rather expensive pairs of shoes. The air was chilly now that the sun had gone down and Jean couldn’t help but notice a faint tremor in Richelieu’s sharp shoulder blades. He pushed down the absurd instinct to offer his jacket to cover Richelieu’s thinner one and resolutely turned his face towards the boundary fence. It was far safer to scan the area than to spend any longer noticing the way the spotlights that dotted the edge of the sports field picked out flecks of chestnut in Richelieu’s greying hair.

Richelieu had been right, the hole in the fence was large and noticeable from a reasonable distance. It was roughly cut, as though someone had taken a saw to it and then lost patience and kicked it in when the job was almost done. Jean spared a glance at d’Artagnan and saw from the expression on his face that the lad was thinking the same thing, evidently not a professional job.

‘I see,’ Jean said as they drew near to it, ‘and neither of you have touched the fence?’

‘This is the closest we have been to it,’ Ninon replied a little waspishly and Jean shot her a placatory smile.

‘We just have to confirm that,’ he said. ‘And have you taken a look at the nearby buildings?’

‘No,’ Ninon shook her head, mollified, ‘we called you straightaway.’

‘Excuse me,’ d’Artagnan said, looking across the field, ‘but is that little shed over there where the sports equipment is kept?’

‘Yes,’ Jean and Ninon responded simultaneously, and Jean felt himself flush a little as he elaborated, ‘it’s where I get the gear when I coach rugby at the weekends.’

The wind had picked up somewhat so Jean couldn’t be entirely sure, but he swore he heard Richelieu murmur ‘of course you do,’ at this point.

‘Well,’ d’Artagnan said, casting a slightly nervous look at Jean, ‘it might be an idea to check that out first. I’ve got a feeling that might be where they headed for.’

‘Lead on lad,’ Jean said and they all traipsed across the field to where the little wooden building stood. It didn’t take long for the tell-tale signs of forced entry to become apparent. And as they reached the shed they saw the padlock that normally secured the door hanging open on the busted lock. Jean and d’Artagnan shared a glance and the latter unhooked his baton from his belt, using it to gently pull the door open.

Jean almost laughed when he looked inside. The carefully arranged shelves of kit remained undisturbed save for the row of tabards, most of which had been pulled down and arranged into an impromptu nest. Next to the pile sat a takeaway container with a few scraps of chicken inside it and a plastic bowl of water.

As they looked on, nonplussed, the pile began to shift slightly and a series of faint mewls could be heard from within.

‘Oh my word,’ Ninon breathed.

‘Evidently someone’s parents wouldn’t let them keep a stray at home, so they had to find alternative accommodation’ Jean said.

Silently, Richelieu stepped past Jean and crouched on the floor of the shed, reaching out with great care to gently flip over one of the tabards so that the mother cat and her kittens could be seen. ‘I don’t think she’s always been a stray,’ he said softly, almost as though he was speaking to himself, ‘she wouldn’t be tolerating me this close to her if she was.’ Indeed, the mother cat had taken to sniffing delicately at Richelieu’s outstretched fingers, evidently unbothered by his presence there. ‘They ought to be taken to a vet,’ he continued in a more normal tone, ‘it’s been a cold couple of nights and they’ll need to be checked for malnutrition.’

‘I know someone we can call,’ d’Artagnan said and stepped outside, carefully navigating the pile of scattered javelins that were evidently the source of the noise Ninon and Richelieu had heard, already dialling a number on his mobile.

‘You seem to have some experience of this Armand?’ Ninon said, her tone a mixture of surprise and amusement.

For the first time since they had met, Richelieu looked a little discomfited, ‘ah yes,’ he said, ‘I had a cat for some time, when I lived in the city. She was from a litter that was found just like this in the cellars at the Louvre, of all places. One of the security guards found them while setting up for a function and got in touch with me as he knew I liked cats.’ He shrugged, ‘and so I ended up taking one in.’

‘You have hidden depths,’ Ninon said, smiling.

Below the cat began to purr as Richelieu gently stroked her head. Jean wasn’t sure what to call the emotion that the sight provoked, but it made him want to grit his teeth.

***

The problem with his new life, Armand reflected, was working out what to do on the weekends. Back in Paris, with a work schedule that made no concessions to ordinary working patterns and an almost non-existent social life outside of the circle of his colleagues, they had generally passed him by. Now, even despite the significant demands of his teaching workload, he found himself with a much larger amount of time on his hands.

To some extent, this could be filled with the ongoing renovations to his house. He had been fortunate in his choice of builders and decorators. Charon and Flea were efficient, skilled in many different tasks and able to recommend trustworthy people to complete the work they could not. The wall separating the kitchen from the room leading on to the garden had long since been knocked through and a new set of appliances and counters installed in the much larger space. Lately, Armand had taken to sitting in there in the darkening evenings with a cup of tea and one of his favoured records playing, watching the birds coming into roost in the stand of trees behind his; still rather unkempt, garden.

The work on the house had progressed into the other rooms of the ground floor, a carpenter had been hired to build a set of fitted shelves in one (to Armand’s very precise specifications). The other had been painted but otherwise stood empty. Armand supposed that he might use it as a dining room but, without the dinner parties held for his allies and rivals or the late night strategy sessions with which he used to to fill his flat in Paris, he couldn’t quite envisage who would join him there.

Armand felt reasonably sure that he had secured the goodwill of most of his colleagues, even the active liking of some, like Ninon. He had occasional conversations with Constance at the cafe, with Pierre at the mayor’s office and with Father Joseph after Mass. However, he still had the sense that he and the town were mutually still holding each other at arm’s length, a little wary of taking additional steps towards deepening the connection between them.

On Armand’s part, the problem was that he had been used to being the centre of events. People had entered his life due to common interests or to being employed by him or alongside him. He had therefore schemed and worked and celebrated with them without having to work very hard to establish any kind of lasting bonds. His departure from his life and work in Paris had severed all of these relationships at a stroke, leaving Armand rather at a loss as to how to build a friendship that didn’t revolve around poring over polling data.

This was the problem with having too much time, Armand reflected darkly. It made one pensive, even melancholic if it remained unfilled and also left one over-reliant on others to provide entertainment or stimulation. He would need to get a hobby of some sorts. Perhaps he could find some way of writing his memoirs that wouldn’t get him assassinated before they went to print. In the meantime however, it was a bright Saturday afternoon in October and it would be a good idea to get some fresh air before it began to get dark.

It took him less than fifteen minutes to drive to Saint-Georges beach. The car park behind the dunes was near deserted when he arrived, only dog walkers and exceptionally committed swimmers venturing there out of season. It was one of the few places that Armand remembered with affection from his childhood. He had always loved the noise of the wind through the grass on the top of the dunes and the sheer expansive sweep of the bay, a perfect place for contemplative walking.

The tide was out far enough that Armand was easily able to walk on the firm sand towards the water’s edge, in the trainers he had reluctantly bought as a concession to the demands of living in a place that was not entirely paved over, The breeze was cool, steady and redolent with the scent of salt-water. Armand breathed it in appreciatively, enjoying the way the fresh air and the steady metronome of his steps untangled the snarl of his thoughts. Advancing further along the sand he noticed one of the few scattered figures on the beach approaching him more closely. He appeared to be a jogger and something about his gait seemed unsettlingly familiar.

As he came close Armand saw that It was Captain Tréville, of all the chances. He hastily readied himself against what was almost certainly going to be an intolerable provocation and nodded a greeting as the man drew nearer. As expected, Tréville had the audacity to be wearing a t-shirt and running shorts in spite of the cooling temperatures. A light sheen of sweat gleamed on the muscles of his arms and his face was pleasantly flushed. Armand tried very hard not to stare and swore under his breath as Jean spotted him and slowed down to greet him with a wary sort of friendliness in his bright blue eyes.

‘Good afternoon Monsieur de Richelieu,’ Jean said as he came to a stop, his voice hoarse from exertion. Armand briefly considered throwing himself into the sea to escape the way the sound of it sent a shiver down his spine.

‘Captain Tréville,’ he responded instead, outwardly calm. ‘I see you are keeping up good habits.’

Tréville’s smile widened, ‘well I’ve got to keep up with the rest of them at the station, and this is a very nice place for a run.’

‘I agree,’ Armand replied, unaccountably pleased that they had this in common. ‘I have always been fond of it.’

‘Always?’ Treville said, his gaze sharpening with curiosity, ‘then you have been here before you moved to Portbail?’

‘I came here a few times as a child,’ Armand replied, ‘to visit my aunt who owned the house I’m living in now. I would have been about seven or eight the last time I visited, but it made an impression on me.’

‘Hmm,’ Treville said, his face more open now. ‘I wonder if we ever met? I grew up here and we must be around a similar age.’

‘It’s possible,’ Armand allowed, ‘but, I wasn’t the most sociable of children. It’s unlikely we would have spent enough time together for you to remember me.’

‘I imagine you would have been hard to forget, even as a kid,’ Tréville grinned, ‘you were probably too busy doing useful stuff like reading while I was getting into trouble. Charon and Flea tell me that you’re building quite a library at the house.’

In Paris, this would have been a comment Armand would have read as intrusive, and he still had to fight off the instinct to brush it off or meet it with a rebuke. He reminded himself that things were different here, that Treville and the rest of the town talked about his doings out of simple curiosity, with no hidden agendas in mind. Indeed it was even possible that this man might be trying to get to know him a little better.

‘I think a library is slightly too grand a term,’ he said. ‘I am getting some shelves built in one of the rooms because I confess I do have quite a few books and I’d rather not keep them sitting in piles all over the place as they are right now.’

‘Quite right,’ Treville said, falling into step beside him, ‘and speaking of storing things away, I meant to ask you what was happening with those cats we found at the lycée the other day?’

‘Oh,’ Armand said, much more comfortable with this subject, ‘well they are currently staying at the vets just in case someone claims them. Via some kind of sorcery, Ninon found out who the students who’d hidden them in the shed were, but it’s unlikely that they’ll be able to take any of them in.’

‘But you will won’t you.’ Treville said matter-of-factly, ‘after all, you were so good with them.’

Armand absolutely refused to countenance the idea that he might be blushing. ‘Well yes,’ he replied, ‘if no-one comes forward, I suspect I shall.’

Treville’s answering smile was charming in the extreme and Armand could barely stand it.

‘Excellent,’ Jean said, ‘well I’d better get back to it,’ he gestured along his running route. ‘I’ll see you later Armand, have a good evening.’

Armand was unable to formulate a reply until Treville had disappeared out of earshot.

 _What the hell is wrong with you?_ He castigated himself as he tried, and failed to stop himself from watching Jean’s progress down the beach away from him. _You’re a middle-aged man not a teenager, and it’s not like he’s some kind of Adonis. He’s just a moderately attractive authority figure with a reasonably sharp mind, there’s absolutely no reason for him to be able to render you this off-balance._

The words rang hollow, even to himself. Perhaps it was because Armand’s last relationship had been a brief and unsatisfactory fling five years ago, perhaps it was because he’d always had a thing for men like Jean de Tréville, but something about the man unsettled him, made him somehow want to draw closer and push him away at the same time.

Armand stood for a while longer out on the beach, trying vainly to recapture his earlier calm, before heading home once more.

***

Armand’s idle thoughts about socialising had obviously had some unconscious effect on the people around him, as only a couple of days had passed since his rather empty weekend before he was cornered by Ninon in the staffroom and issued with an invitation.

‘A dinner party?’ He said, as they waited for the coffee to brew.

Ninon shrugged, ‘nothing hugely formal, but I like to hold them pretty regularly.’ She smirked, ‘it serves to keep me abreast of the gossip in this town if nothing else.’

‘As the subject of much of the recent gossip, aren’t you worried my presence might inhibit discussion?’ Armand asked.

‘Oh you’re old news now,’ Ninon said. ’Unless you plan on doing anything scandalous in the next week or so?’ She looked rather hopeful.

‘I’m afraid I forgot to pencil any scandalous activity into my diary,’ Armand replied, ‘we, and the rest of the guests will have to content ourselves with what other meagre pickings exist.’

‘So you’ll come then.’ She seemed satisfied, ‘that’s excellent, I’ve already got Constance and Father Jospeh to agree and I’ve invited Porthos and Aramis, they’re always good for conversation. I just need to corner Jean now and bully him into submission and we’ll have a full set.’

‘Jean de Tréville?’ Richelieu said, years of practice keeping his tone casual, almost bored.

‘Who else?’ Ninon replied, ‘he’s always a charming guest and I think you two ought to get to know each other better: I’ve got a feeling you’ll really get on.’

She breezed off to intercept another member of staff, leaving Armand to scowl at his reflection in the chrome of the coffee machine. He definitely needed to get a haircut.

***

Friday night saw Jean make his way slowly to Ninon’s house, a carefully chosen bottle of Calvados to serve as a digestif in his hand and a great deal of apprehension in his heart. He was a regular fixture at Ninon’s dinner table and though he grumbled every time she asked him, he normally enjoyed her excellent taste in food, wine and company. Tonight however, she had seen fit to invite Armand de Richelieu, who was disconcerting enough in himself, but all the more so given the way that his presence has been announced by Ninon.

She had caught Jean outside the Tabac on Monday evening and he had made his usual token demurral at the idea of a dinner party, as he knew was expected of him by now.

‘Oh don’t play the ‘simple policeman’ act with me Jean,’ she said, rolling her eyes, ‘we both know full well that you’re perfectly able to keep up with the conversation, otherwise why would I keep inviting you? Anyway, you’ve got to come, I’ve made a significant effort with the menu and the guest list this time and I demand you come and appreciate the effect.’

‘Oh yes?’ He said, amused. ‘Well I know Porthos and Aramis are going along, but I must remind you that I eat lunch with them almost every day, so the novelty will probably have worn off..’

‘Oh very amusing,’ she said, ‘I am talking about the significant conversational and aesthetic contribution that will be provided by our mysterious Parisian newcomer, Armand.’

Jean swallowed nervously, ‘I’ll allow the conversational aspect,’ he said, ‘but the aesthetic..?’

She looked at him sceptically, ‘don’t be obtuse Jean. Though he’s hardly the type I’m going to admire over the dinner table; that’s what I’ve invited Constance for, even I can tell that he’s something of a snack. And his clothes! I think I’m going to have to make a couple of trips to Paris this spring in order to keep up with him.’

Their conversation moved on to different matters, but this exchange played on Jean’s mind all through the rest of the week. He was still thinking about it for most of Saturday morning and especially when he rifled through his own rather meagre wardrobe in search of something to wear.

As it happened, he turned up at Ninon’s in his usual outfit of navy jacket and trousers that were smart, but not excessively formal. If he had paired them with a brighter blue shirt that had drawn compliments in the past for how it brought out his eyes, well that was his own affair.

Steeling himself against the very real possibility that he would make a prat of himself at some point in the evening, he knocked on the door.

‘Jean!’ Ninon greeted him, resplendent in a plum wool shift dress, her hair piled up into an artfully messy bun so that the delicate strands of her pearl earrings could be clearly seen.

‘Ninon, you always look wonderful so you hardly need me to compliment you,’ he said, handing the bottle over and kissing her on both her cheeks.

‘And yet I never tire of hearing it,’ she said, taking the bottle from him with a smile, ‘as you are perfectly aware. Now come through and have a glass of champagne. Now that you’ve arrived we’re all here.’

She led him through into her airy living room and poured him a glass, leaving him to carefully assess the room and its occupants. Father Joseph and Aramis were deep in conversation by the window, Porthos had evidently just told Constance a rather dirty joke judging by the way she was blushing and laughing at the same time and there, standing by the fireplace with an air of amused self-assurance was Armand de Richelieu.

The safest thing by far was to focus on his clothes. Jean had to admit, even to his untutored eye, that Ninon’s assessment of them was spot on. Armand’s trousers were in the slim cut he favoured, this time in a grey herringbone tweed. His shirt was of deepest burgundy and was set perfectly against the red silk lining of his jacket, which hung casually over his shoulders like a cape. As Jean watched, he turned his head slightly to hear what Constance was saying to him and Jean caught the glitter of a diamond stud in the lobe of his right ear.

Jean took a long swallow of champagne to fortify himself as Ninon seized him by the elbow and dragged him inexorably over to them.

It would be safe to say that Armand felt rather in his element as they were seated at Ninon’s long dining table, looking out through the double doors into her immaculately kept courtyard garden. He noted with some amusement that he had been placed as the guest of honour at Ninon’s right hand and he was initially surprised that she had not seated Jean next to him. After a moment it was revealed that her game was a lot more devious than that as she ushered Jean to sit down across the table. One glance at the effect of the candlelight on the man’s already handsome features left Armand unsure whether to bless or curse her.

He decided that he was leaning towards the former as his hostess poured him a glass of crisp sauvignon-blanc and passed around plates dill-flecked mackerel pate and fresh baguette to start the meal. Armand was quickly drawn into a highly amusing conversation with Aramis and Constance about the competing commercial and romantic entanglements afflicting the staff of the two big restaurants by the quay. This continued as a pair of roast chickens, potatoes dauphinoise and a crisp green salad were brought out for the main course, to general acclaim and expressions of appreciation directed at Ninon.

‘Wait until you taste it first before you start celebrating,’ she said, ‘and don’t scold me for being unadventurous Aramis, I’m not sweating over an entirely new recipe when I’ve got guests to consider.’

Aramis held up his hands in mock surrender and endured some light-hearted raillery about a disastrous paella from several of the other guests before the conversation lapsed somewhat as they paid proper attention to their meal. Armand chanced a look across the table at Jean and perhaps let his gaze linger a little too long on the soft light on his face and the way he smiled when he quietly complimented Ninon on the food.

It was perhaps this preoccupation that led him to be caught by surprise by the turn the conversation took next.

‘So Ninon,’ Porthos said, ‘while we were entertaining ourselves with gossip, what were you, Jean and Father Joseph discussing? It looked much more serious.’

Ninon laughed, ‘and yet it wasn’t much more than a different variety of hearsay. We were only discussing the election.’

There was a chorus of groans from around the table and Armand carefully leaned back in his chair, hoping to hide the way his shoulders had stiffened at the introduction of the topic.

‘Oh god, the election,’Aramis said, ‘if the Front National get into the run-offs again I swear I’m going to emigrate.’

‘I just don’t understand what’s happening!’ Constance said, ‘last year it seemed a sure thing that it would be a contest between the socialists and the republicans, but over the last few months it’s all fallen into chaos!’

Jean snorted, ‘it’s hardly the socialists who are the problem here, it’s that fool Louis Bourbon torpedoing his own campaign with scandal after scandal.’

Ninon shook her head. ‘Scandals can be weathered if you’re charismatic enough, Bourbon seemed to have a consistent message at the beginning, but now he just seems to be reacting to every new crisis. It doesn’t inspire confidence at all.’

As she finished speaking silence fell and inevitably all eyes turned expectantly to Armand. He could hardly blame them. Had he been in their shoes he could hardly have passed up the chance to interrogate a bona fide political insider at the height of an increasingly fraught election campaign. Nevertheless he felt a strange mixture of discomfort and the echo of the exultation he used to feel at being the political oracle and the centre of attention in the room. He knew that he could talk on this subject all night. He could sit here and spin out his wit and his anecdotes of past campaigns, spiced with just enough gossip to keep his audience gasping, but hadn’t the point of this whole exercise been to escape that? To see what kind of man Armand de Richelieu was beyond ‘the Cardinal’ of political legend?

He took a careful sip of his wine and met Jean’s steady blue gaze across the table.

‘It has been some time since I was privy to decisions made within the campaign,’ he began, ‘so I cannot tell you what might be going on behind the scenes now.’ He paused, ‘what I am able to say is that, you are each of you all right about parts of the problem, if not the whole of it. The scandals, the dodgy finances, the poor messaging,’ he waved his hand dismissively, ‘they are all merely the symptoms of a deeper issue, and that is of a campaign that has no idea what it is fighting for.’

He punctuated his little speech with another sip of his wine and saw with a sinking feeling that both Porthos and Constance were leaning forward, evidently preparing to ask him to elaborate or to discuss the issues further.

They were however, forestalled.

‘Well that seems to be a common enough problem,’ Jean said, redirecting the conversation unexpectedly but ruthlessly. ‘Have you heard that that old M. Roland intends to run in the mayoral election again? He must be well into his eighties by now and the last new idea he had was about forty years ago.’

Laughter erupted around the table and the tension broke as the party merrily entered into a critique of the hopelessly dysfunctional local government. Armand felt himself relax as the spotlight passed away from him for the rest of the night.

He did not forget his rescuer though, and made sure to catch him as they departed from Ninon’s house later, after a leisurely two hours spent over dessert and pleasant conversation.

‘I wanted to thank you Jean,’ he said quietly as they waved goodbye to Constance and Father Joseph, ‘for intervening in our little political discussion back there.’

To his credit, Jean did not attempt to feign ignorance of what Armand was talking about. He shrugged and replied, his voice low and somewhat uncertain. ‘It’s not a big deal, I just got the sense that you did not really want to talk about it.’

‘You are very observant Jean,’ Armand said, ‘I was willing to discuss it, I understand why they would have expected me to enjoy it even, but I wasn’t really comfortable with it.’

‘It must be difficult,’ Jean said, getting right to the heart of the issue with the directness that Armand was learning was characteristic of him, ‘to be at the centre of that world and to leave it all behind.’

Armand drew in a long breath. ‘It is,’ he acknowledged, ‘but I don’t regret it.’

And then suddenly a warm, heavy hand was resting on his shoulder. Armand shot a startled look at Jean and found him smiling up at him. ‘Well I am glad of that,’ Jean said, ‘it takes strength to walk away from what you’ve known.’ He hesitated, ‘and for what it’s worth, I’m glad you decided to come here.’

Armand had just enough presence of mind left to thank him and he tried not to shudder with pleasure too obviously as Jean gave his shoulder a last squeeze before bidding him farewell.

 _Well that’s that then_ , he thought to himself in a shocked sort of haze as he watched Jean make his way down the street. _I’ve really got no option but to seduce him now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Armand Jean du Plessis, Duc de Richelieu was the 17th century's biggest cat fan and I will duel anyone who claims otherwise. 
> 
> (The stray cats on site incident is based on a real story a friend of mine told me about the school she worked at.) 
> 
> Some French politics talk in this one, so once again a few key terms for anyone who is interested. 
> 
> Les Republicains - The French centre-right party, equivalent to the Conservatives in the UK (possibly the moderate Republicans in the US??). For the purposes of this story it is the party Louis leads as it seemed the best fit. 
> 
> Parti Socialiste - The centre-left party, equivalent to Labour in the UK. 
> 
> Front-National - The extreme-right party. Because everything sucks right now they got into the second round of the presidential elections in 2017. (I'm not going to go into detail about the French electoral system here, because I used to moonlight as a politics teacher and once I get going it's difficult for me to shut up.) 
> 
> I decided to leave En Marche out of it because I didn't want to overcomplicate things.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richelieu's old job isn't letting him go as easily as he'd hoped, but at least there's a New Year's Eve party to make up for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been a few more demands on my time this week so I have sacrificed doing a very careful edit in order to be able to put a chapter up. Apologies therefore for any errors or typos. I will probably do a sweep later on to try and catch them.

Any grand plans Armand might have had regarding Jean fell by the wayside in the flurry of activity that filled the next two weeks. Seasonal flu hit the lycée and Armand’s marking timetable was thrown out completely by the need to cover absent colleagues’ lessons. Work was also gathering pace on his house and much of his free time in the evenings and at weekends was spent making decisions about paint-colours and appliances to pass on to Charon and Flea.

In reality, at least some of the work he undertook could have waited for his attention. However, he felt the need for a distraction as the brief conversation at Ninon’s dinner party had awakened an old itch that made it difficult to stick to his resolution not to obsessively follow political affairs. It didn’t help that a new expenses scandal had hit the flailing Bourbon campaign, with the fallout taking up pages in the newspapers and even ending up as a frequent topic of conversation in the staffroom.

 _You’re a bloody fool Louis,_ Armand thought to himself when he first became aware of the news, _and I’m not going to be bailing you out this time_.

It was with a tired lack of surprise therefore, that Armand came home one evening from school to find a familiar black Renault parked on his driveway. Its owner sat on his doorstep, idly checking his phone while smoking a cigarette.

‘If you want to do that Jussac, then you’re not coming into my house.’ Armand said sharply as he closed his car door.

‘I’ve just finished boss,’ Jussac said, smiling in spite of Armand’s harsh tone, before carefully stubbing out the cigarette and putting the butt away in his bag.

‘You know I’m not your boss anymore,’ Armand said wearily as he unlocked the front door and gestured Jussac inside.

Jussac shrugged,’it’s just another habit I can’t quit.’ He wrinkled his nose, ‘no offence sir, but I can’t ever imagine calling you by your first name.’

‘It would be very strange,’ Armand agreed, leading him through to the kitchen. ‘I assume Louis sent you here in order to ask me to return?’ He asked, feeling no need to perform modesty in front of a man he’d worked alongside for over a decade.

‘I told them it was pointless,’ Jussac said, gratefully accepting the wine glass Armand passed to him, ‘but they’re getting desperate.’

‘Charmed I’m sure,’ said Armand drily.

‘You know what I mean boss,’ Jussac replied, ‘anyone who knew you at all could tell that you were serious about leaving. I’m amazed Louis was able to go on deluding himself that you’d come back for so long.’

‘Yes well Louis is highly skilled at ignoring realities that are inconvenient to him,’ Armand said, taking a sip of his own wine, ‘dealing with uncomfortable truths is what he employed me for. I surmise that no-one else has taken on my old job?’

Jussac shook his head, ‘no-one would go near that campaign once you’d jumped ship. Staff are resigning in droves, hell, I’ve had my notice ready to send for the past month. In fact,’ he looked carefully down at his wine-glass, ‘that’s linked to the real reason I’m here. Now that he’s finally twigged that you’ve gone for good, Louis has started becoming…’

‘Resentful?’ Armand supplied. ‘Prone to tantrums?’

‘That’s about the shape of it yes,’ Jussac grimaced. ‘Initially it wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before. But lately he’s stopped talking so much about how no-one should worry because you’ll soon be back to fix things soon and has started talking more…well more about how you’ve betrayed him.’

‘Ah,’ Armand said, ‘I did wonder if he might start doing that. Let me guess, there are more than a few of the dregs left in his inner circle who are happy to encourage him in that belief.’

‘You did make quite a few enemies,’ Jussac reminded him.

‘That I did,’ Armand acknowledged, ‘which I suppose makes this little meeting something of a test for me. You go back and remain a good little soldier for the campaign and Louis’ suspicions remain groundless, but if you were to leave…’

‘Then it’ll be evidence you talked me into abandoning him too.’ Jussac said, ‘I am happy to stick it out boss, if you need me to. It’s not like I’m going to take much of the flack when this campaign explodes, I’m just one of the backroom guys.’

‘Hardly,’ Armand said, ‘and no, I don’t think you should stay any longer. Even if it quiets Louis’ suspicions for a while it won’t do so forever, not when he’s losing and wanting someone to blame for it.’ He leaned forward in his chair abruptly, the beginnings of an idea swimming into his mind. ‘In fact, I think you should resign from the campaign straight away. Send in your notice tonight if possible, or at least do it tomorrow morning.’

Jussac looked at him steadily, with a faintly weary expression. ‘I am assuming, as ever, that you have your own reasons for asking me to do that boss.’

‘Don’t I always?’ Armand grinned. ‘Now, are you planning on sticking around or do you intend to leave straightaway? I can offer you dinner and in return you can catch me up on the Parisian gossip.’

‘Dinner would be great, thanks boss.’ Jussac smiled and relaxed back into his chair. ‘Well, first things first, here’s what Anne’s been up to since the divorce…’

As he waved off Jussac’s car a couple of hours later Armand did wonder whether he had perhaps opened up a whole new can of worms by provoking Louis in this way. As he leaned against the doorframe and looked up into the crisp November night however, he felt that in the long run the gamble would be worth it.

***

Jean’s life also became increasingly busy as November faded into December. His time and attention were occupied with an arson attack on a nearby commercial farm, a couple of violent assaults in nearby towns and a few minor break-ins. So busy was he, that he didn’t even have time to stop by Constance’s until it was almost the middle of the month.

‘Oh bloody hell, it’s almost Christmas,’ he said, when he saw the decorations up around the bar on the first Friday evening he was able to visit again.

‘Indeed it is,’ Constance said, getting a beer glass down with one hand. The other was fully occupied with cradling a kitten.

Jean blinked, ‘is that a cat?’

‘You are observant tonight Jean,’ Constance said dryly. ‘This is Anouk, she was one of the litter you found at the lycée.’

Jean grinned and went over to say hello. ‘I didn’t realise you had decided to take one in.’

‘Well someone had to stop Richelieu from collecting the whole set,’ Constance said. ‘As it was, he’s taken two, the last went to one of the other teachers. I think Porthos was considering adopting the mother but the reclusive man from the La Fère chateau swooped in and snatched her up.’

‘Seriously?’ Jean said, ‘how on earth did he get to hear about them?’

‘Certainly not from me,’ Constance said rather stiffly. The continued mystery surrounding the chateau and its owner, and her own inability to find out anything more than the vaguest hints about them was something of a sore point for her curious nature.

A blast of cold air from the door announced the entry of another large group, and with a slight swoop in his stomach Jean saw that it was formed of the lycée staff. Armand was conspicuous among them in his red scarf and elegant coat. The feeling intensified as the man looked up and smiled when he saw Jean at the bar, extricating himself from his colleagues and stalking across to meet him.

‘Hello Jean,’ Armand said, shaking his hand, he kept hold of it for a couple of moments longer than necessary while he leaned over and kissed Constance in greeting. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen you here.’

‘We’ve had a busy few weeks,’ Jean replied, hoping his face wasn’t flushing. ‘So much so that I missed the arrival of Anouk there,’ he nodded at the sleeping kitten who had been transferred from Constance’s arms onto a cushion behind the bar. ‘I understand that you’re now looking after two of her siblings?’

Armand flashed a toothy grin and took his phone out of his pocket, bringing up a picture on it before passing it to Jean with a flourish. ‘These two are Pyrame and Thysbe,’ he said.

The picture showed two kittens curled up together on what was evidently a seat in Armand’s house, one was almost entirely black with white on his paws and chest and the other was a grey tabby.

‘They’re delightful,’ Jean said, passing the phone back.

‘They’re menaces,’ Armand replied, still smiling. ‘They keep running around the house at all hours of the night and they’re already becoming absurdly picky about their food.’

Jean tried to hide his smile behind his beer glass, it was more than a little amusing seeing this rather sharp and aloof man so clearly at the beck and call of his two kittens. They sat in comfortable silence for a minute or two while Constance got drinks for the rest of the group from the lycée before Armand roused himself and began to interrogate Jean about all of the doings down at the station.

In the end Jean ended up staying much longer than he originally intended, sharing easy conversation with Armand and the others who drifted in and out of their orbit as they waited at the bar. As the place grew more crowded he rather guiltily took the opportunity to lean close enough to catch the faint scent of Armand’s cologne, but the other man never seemed to want to pull away or put any distance between them. In fact as the evening drew on he seemed increasingly satisfied, his expression not unlike the look on Anouk’s face when Constance paused in her work to rub behind her ears.

That thought was a dangerous one as it led inexorably to the idea of running his fingers through greying curls and the way Armand’s eyelids might droop and his smile widen if Jean did so, Jean flexed his fingers around the stem of his glass and tried to put the idea out of his mind, feeling a mixture of gratitude and regret when Ninon came up to interrupt them to let Armand know she was heading home.

As he bundled himself back into his coat and scarf Armand turned back to Jean, a slight hint of nervousness in his expression. ‘You should come over to meet them at some point,’ he said, ‘the kittens, I mean. You did help discover them, after all.’

‘I’d like that,’ Jean said, the smile remaining on his face long after Armand had walked out of the door.

When he turned back to ask Constance for the bill he saw that she was laughing.

‘So that’s the way to Jean Treville’s heart eh?’ She said. ‘Enticing him in with cats. Smooth work, Richelieu.’

Jean flushed, ‘we weren’t..’ He began.

‘Oh please,’ Constance said, ‘I’ve been running this bar for five years now. I know what flirtation looks like, and that is definitely what you two were doing.’ She grinned, ‘Ninon did say she thought you two were into each other after her dinner party, but I didn’t really credit it until this evening.’

‘I realise this is going to make me sound like a teenager,’ Jean said carefully, ‘but do you really think he’s interested in me?’

‘The man was practically trying to climb into your lap.’ Constance said, ‘and I think you’d be happy to let him.’

***

The day that Jean did get to meet the cats was less auspicious than he had hoped. Ninon’s car had broken down in the preceding week and he and a group of her friends had arranged to drive her home from school until it could be fixed. Jean’s allotted day was Thursday and when he pulled up at the gates he saw that Ninon was carrying a pharmacy bag and was looking down at her phone with a serious expression.

‘Is everything alright?’ He asked as she got into the car.

‘I’m fine,’ she replied her voice reassuring, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to ask you to make a detour if it’s not too much trouble.’ She waved the pharmacy bag. ‘I’ve got to drop this off.’

‘It’s no problem at all,’ Jean said. ‘Is it for someone from the school?’

‘It’s for Armand,’ she confirmed, ‘he periodically gets quite severe migraines.’ Her lips thinned, ‘I’m certain he was trying to work through the onset of one yesterday but fortunately he was sensible enough not to come in today.’

Jean’s hands tightened around the steering wheel and if his driving was a little faster than normal as they headed towards Armand’s house, Ninon had the grace not to comment.

The door was open and the curtains drawn as they reached Armand’s home. They slipped quietly in and Ninon placed the paper bag carefully down on the table in the hallway, calling out softly, ‘Armand, are you up?’

‘In here,’ came the response, Armand’s voice sounding unusually strained. Jean followed Ninon through one of the side doors that evidently led to Armand’s library. It was hard to make out the details of the room through the gloom but Jean gained the impression of tall bookshelves and the elegant shape of a chaise-lounge on which Armand lay, one of the cats curled up asleep at his feet.

‘How are you feeling Armand?’ Ninon asked quietly.

‘Better than I was, thank you,’ Armand replied, ‘I’m very sorry for asking you to pick those things up for me, but I’m not sure I’d have managed the walk into town.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Ninon said, ‘we’re very happy to help.’

‘’We?’ Armand replied, alarm passing over his face as he raised his head up. ‘Jean! I didn’t realise you were here as well.’ He made as though he was about to stand up, and Jean leaned forward with a placatory hand to prevent him from doing so.

‘Don’t get up,’ Jean pitched his voice low and soft, ‘just let us know if we can get you anything, more water? Tea?’

‘I was going to make some tea,’ Armand muttered, ‘there’s some chamomile in a tin on the sideboard, but..’ He moved as if to get up again.

‘I’ve got it,’ Jean said, forestalling him, ‘I can work out where your kettle is, you just sit back down.’ He walked quietly out towards the kitchen, relieved to have something to do in order to help.

Meanwhile Armand subsided back onto the cushions, shooting a fierce look at Ninon, an effort that made him wince.

‘Don’t glare at me Armand,’ Ninon said, amused, ‘you’ll only hurt yourself. Anyway, I’m doing you a favour, Jean is a very chivalrous man, he’ll almost certainly be round to check up on you after this.’

Armand was prevented from objecting to her meddling by the return of Jean, who was cradling a cup and saucer in his hands, which he placed carefully on a side table within reach of where Armand sat. ‘Now are you sure there’s nothing else we can do for you?’ Jean enquired, ‘I need to drop Ninon back at hers but I can always come back later if you need anything.’

Valiantly avoiding Ninon’s amused look Armand persuaded Jean that he was perfectly fine and earnestly thanked him for his help. To his satisfaction, Jean insisted on leaving his number before he left. Armand reluctantly felt that he had to credit Ninon for her ingenuity.

Jean on the other hand, felt far less charitable towards her once they reached his car and she proved unable to suppress her laughter any longer.

‘Oh I am sorry,’ she said, ‘I do hate to be the reason you couldn’t stick around to mop his fevered brow.’

‘Don’t start,’ he replied, flushing.

‘Forgive me Jean,’ she said, smiling over at him. ‘I think it’s very sweet.’

‘Sweet?’ He raised his eyebrow, ‘I’m a captain of the gendarmes and he’s some kind of political mastermind.’

‘All the more reason for you both to stop dancing around each other then,’ she said, collecting her bag together. ‘Between the two of you there’s surely enough resolve to work something out by the new year.’

‘Is that a challenge?’ Jean asked

She smirked, ‘if you want it to be. Thanks for the lift Jean.’

***

Armand wasn’t sure whether Ninon’s diagnosis was correct and his illness had awakened some protective instinct in Jean or if something else had spurred the man into action, but he was certain he was enjoying the effects. As the term wound down to a close the man was suddenly everywhere. The rugby practice he ran on Wednesday afternoons suddenly wound up just in time for Jean to catch Armand for a quick chat before leaving. He arrived early to Constance’s on Friday evening and left late after spending most of his time leaning against the bar at Armand’s side, telling him amusing stories about the doings of the other patrons.

It was Armand’s turn to find him during the last Saturday market before Christmas. Jean was standing by the fish stall with Aramis and that young, rather excitable gendarme who Armand thought was called d’Artagnan. All three men were deep in fierce debate.

‘You don’t need any more langoustines Aramis,’ Armand overheard Jean saying with patient exasperation, ‘you’ve already got more than enough.’

‘Porthos likes them,’ Aramis replied.

‘Porthos probably doesn’t like them enough to eat them for every single meal after you realise you’ve over-catered again,’ d’Artagnan pointed out.

Aramis shot him a dark look, ‘I can always rescind your invitation, you know.’

‘It was Porthos who invited me for Christmas in the first place, so no you can’t,’ the man shot back confidently.

‘Alright,’ Jean said, holding up pacifying hands. Looking up, he spotted Armand hovering nearby and smiled. ‘Hi Armand, we’re just helping Aramis with his usual panic over the Christmas menu.’

‘You mock me,’ Aramis said darkly, ‘but you never say no when I bring leftovers down the station.’

‘You would be seriously offended if we did,’ Jean observed.

‘True,’ Aramis said absently, his attention captured once again by the stall. ‘Maybe I should get some more oysters.’

‘If you buy so many that Constance can’t get enough for her New Year’s party, she will track you down and murder you,’ d’Artagnan said, moving forward to try and arrest Aramis’ progress towards the stall.

‘Constance is having a party?’ Armand asked Jean.

‘It’s an annual tradition,’ Jean explained, ‘she opens up the bar to the whole town, most people drop by, even if only for part of the night.’ He smiled and drew closer, quirking his eyebrow at Armand in what was evidently a practiced move, one that was irritatingly effective. ‘I was planning on asking you whether you were going along?’

‘Why, are you?’ Armand asked, grinning.

Jean laughed, ‘god, it’s like being back at the lycée myself and trying to find out if the person I liked was going to the same house parties as me.’

‘Hmmm well my lycée career was far less exciting than yours,’ Armand said, leaning ever closer into Jean’s personal space, ‘but I have no doubt you were as successful then as you are now. Yes, I will be at Constance’s party on New Year’s Eve.’

He watched with satisfaction as Jean’s smile widened and felt himself swaying closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth emanating from the other man. He’d never been one for public displays of affection, but he had to admit that the idea was suddenly rather tempting.

It was perhaps fortunate that this was the moment that Aramis and d’Artagnan returned, still bickering. With some regret Armand put a little more space between himself and Jean, mindful once more of his surroundings, though he was still unable to drag his eyes away from Jean’s.

‘Well I suppose I’ll see you later then,’ he said quietly.

‘Until then,’ Jean replied, that infernal eyebrow lifting again.

As Armand made his way back down the street he could not resist a smirk as he distinctly heard Jean’s voice, this time raised in exasperation.

‘d’Artagnan, are you seriously trying to high-five me!’

***

It had been a very long time since Jean had been to a party with any expectation of, to be blunt, hooking up with anyone. Following the end of his last long-term relationship almost seven years earlier, he had occasionally headed out the bars to pick someone up for the night, but the practice had gradually lost its appeal. He was grateful however, that he’d had the sense to keep hold of what his last boyfriend Phillippe had termed, ‘the good jeans’ and was relieved to see when he pulled them on that they had lost none of their effect. He also put on a blue cable-knit jumper that sat snugly on his chest over the top of his t-shirt. There was little point trying to compete with Armand when it came to clothing, so staying with comfortable, flattering choices seemed the best bet. That didn’t mean he had to be entirely boring though, and he spent the last five minutes before he left fishing around in a box on his chest of drawers, finally digging out a simple metal stud and sliding it into the piercing on his right ear.

Costance’s was already busy by the time Jean arrived, people spilling out of the bar in small groups in spite of the chill. Jean snagged a beer from one of the ice buckets put out by the door and did the rounds, greeting friends, colleagues and acquaintances as he moved around the bar. He was just looking around for a place to perch himself while he waited for Armand to arrive, when the door opened once again and the man walked in.

Jean had learned to expect Armand to look good. The man seemed to see no reason why he shouldn’t dress for the streets of Portbail in the same way he had when he’d stalked the corridors of power. Jean had thought he had built up a certain tolerance from being exposed to it, but the way his breath caught when Armand walked in demonstrated he had not.

Armand was wearing a dark red suit in his customary slim cut, but he wore it far more casually than the clothes Jean had seen him in at work. Instead of his fine leather shoes he wore shiny black ankle boots that narrowed to a dangerous point and his customary white shirt had been replaced with a black t-shirt in a fine weave that looked like it would be soft to the touch. His heavy black winter coat with its bright scarlet lining was once again thrown over his shoulders like a cape, did the man have some kind of grudge against sleeves?

The diamond earring glinted in Armand’s earlobe and Jean experienced an almost overwhelming desire to take it between his teeth.

***

Armand had always enjoyed making an entrance, sweeping into the party headquarters or the National Assembly and watching heads turn as he passed. Entering Constance’s bar with the same dramatic flair was perhaps a little over the top, but the way Jean immediately straightened up from his slouch against the bar and the appreciative look on his face made it absolutely worth it. He sauntered over, making no pretence that he wasn’t looking Jean up and down in turn and slid into place beside him.

‘Good evening Jean,’ he said, ‘you look good.’

‘And you look like you’ve just pulled off a successful coup,’ Jean replied.

Armand grinned, ‘it’s always an image I like to maintain.’ He leaned over to pour himself a glass of wine. ‘I’m relieved to see that none of my students seem to be here.’

Jean laughed, ‘none of the lycée kids would be seen dead in a bar filled with their parents and teachers. We’ve just got to pray that none of the house-parties they’ve got planned gets out of control and I get called away to sort it out.’

Armand narrowed his eyes, ‘if that happened, the consequences for their enjoyment of my lessons will be severe.’

‘Are you enjoying it?’ Jean asked, ‘teaching I mean.’

‘As it happens, I am,’ Armand replied, ‘I don’t think I could have gone from my old job to one that didn’t force me to think on my feet at all, plus there’s a theatrical element to it that I enjoy.’ He smiled knowingly, ‘the marking’s a pain obviously, but I’ve had to plough through more incoherent reports from politicians in my time.’

Jean laughed, ‘I bet it can’t be as bad as some of the paperwork I have to deal with, I swear I’m going to end up needing glasses just to deal with d’Artagnan’s handwriting.’

‘You’d pull them off,’ Armand said, leaning closer. ‘So what about you Captain Treville, do you enjoy your job?’

It was at that point, with exquisite timing, that Jean’s phone started ringing.

‘At this precise moment, no,’ Jean replied, trying to keep his voice calm, ‘I don’t think I like my job much at all.

Jean was going to kill them, whichever idiot thought it was a good idea to start a fire up at the old La Fère place, he was going to challenge them to a duel and then stab them. He fumed as he left the bar and unlocked his car, cursing under his breath until he was interrupted by the soft clearing of a throat.

Armand was leaning on the other side of the car, looking equal parts rueful and amused.

‘I’m sorry Armand,’ Jean said, ‘I’ve got to go…’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ Armand said crisply, ‘I thought I’d come with you.’

Jean stood dumbfounded for a moment at the brilliance of the idea, there was probably some regulation that prohibited it but he really couldn’t care less at this point. He grinned, ‘well then, get in.’

‘Well this is novel,’ Armand said, looking around him with interest as they pulled out of the high street.

‘You’ve never been in a police car before?’ Jean asked.

‘Not in the front,’ Armand said, smirking.

Jean shot him a sidelong look, ‘I imagine there’s quite a story there.’

‘I’ll tell you it some time,’ Armand said and then, to Jean’s delight, he reached over and took the hand that Jean did not have on the steering wheel.

Fortunately, Jean knew the road to the La Fere chateau very well, because half his mind was entirely focused on the feel of Armand’ long, fine-boned fingers intertwined with his. He dared a soft brush of his thumb on the inside of the other man’s wrist and was rewarded with a short intake of breath.

 _Do not pull over_ , Jean told himself, _or at least, wait until after you’ve checked out the incident_.

The La Fère place sat at the end of a long drive shaded with trees. As they turned the final corner they caught sight of the dark bulk of the chateau before them, with only one window on the ground floor illuminated.

‘Well it doesn’t seem to be on fire,’ Jean observed as they pulled up in front of the building. Though once they got out he was easily able to smell woodsmoke, drifting through the still cold night.

‘It seems to be coming from behind the chateau,’ Armand said, and together they walked cautiously around the line of a filled-in moat before they saw a lick of flame coming from a grassy area behind the main wing of the house.

‘i can’t believe I’ve been called out for a bonfire,’ Jean groused, ‘I’d better go and check it out, though, there’s some odd stories about this place and there was an arson attack here a couple of years back, if I remember correctly.’ He set out towards the light, Armand keeping pace beside him and as they drew closer the faint orange glow resolved itself into a large garden fire, and in front of it stood a man who appeared to be throwing the contents of a suitcase into the flames.

‘Monsieur,’ Jean said, and the man startled, looking up from his work, ‘my name is Captain Treville, we were called out because someone noticed the fire.’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ the man said, his voice clipped. ‘Can’t a man build a fire in his own garden without people getting the gendarmerie involved?’

‘You own this property sir?’ Treville replied.

‘Yes, my name is Athos de La Fère,’ the man said, walking towards them, his features becoming clearer: ‘Do you want me to show you ID or something?’ He patted at his pockets, ‘I think I’ve left my wallet back in the house…’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Jean said, relaxing as he got a good look at the man’s face, ‘I recognise you. You may not remember, but I starting coaching the rugby team when you were in the final year at the lycée.

Athos frowned at him for a moment before his face relaxed. ’I do remember as it happens,’ he replied, ‘but I didn’t make the connection.’ He glanced awkwardly behind him, ‘I’m sorry you were called all the way out here for this. I was just getting rid of a few things, stuff from the house I didn’t want anymore.’

‘Ok,’ Jean said calmly, ‘we just wanted to check that all was well. Did you need any help?’

‘No, no,’ Athos assured him, ‘I’d invite you in Captain,’ he glanced over at Armand, ‘and your companion, but I haven’t actually got anything from the kitchen unpacked yet.’

‘Another time,’ Jean said, smiling, ‘well if all is well Monsieur, then we will leave you to it.’

They shook hands and bade their farewells, Jean noting with some amusement that Armand was evidently struggling to stifle some commentary until they were out of earshot.

‘Well that was dramatic,’ Armand said wryly, once they reached the car and Jean had called it in as a false alarm on his radio.

‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ Jean said, ‘it can make people do strange things.’

‘And what will it make you do?’ Armand said, leaning over, barely a breath between them.

Jean swallowed, ‘pull over at the next stopping place?’

‘The turn-off to Saint-Georges isn’t too far from here is it?’ Armand said.

‘Brilliant idea,’ Jean replied.

They pulled into the deserted car-park and got out, moving as of one mind to lean against the bonnet of Jean’s car.

‘Don’t think I’m traipsing over the sand-dunes in these shoes.’ Armand cautioned him as they drew closer.

‘There’s no way I could wait long enough to make it down to the beach anyway,’ Jean said, catching Armand by his hands and finally, finally reeling him in.

Armand’s lips were pliant under his and the man kissed with precision, stroking his thumb behind Jean’s ear and taking the gasp it provoked as an opportunity to slip his tongue into Jean’s mouth. Jean kept the pace steady, sucking on Armand’s lower lip and relishing the way the man groaned. Through the haze of his own arousal, he noted the way Armand trembled when he tugged lightly on his curls and filed the information away for later use.

Eventually they broke apart, Armand’s lips wet with spit and spots of colour high in his cheeks. Jean couldn’t resist pressing their cheeks together in order to smell the way the incense notes of Armand’s cologne mellowed against his skin and while he was there, there was that tempting diamond earring to be gently taken between his teeth.

Armand made a desperate noise in his throat as he did so. ‘You’d better stop,’ he said hoarsely, ‘or we’ll definitely end up breaking a few decency laws.’

Jean laughed, ‘we can’t have that.’ He slid his hand under Armand’s coat to rub soothingly over his back, pulling him to perch on the car next to him and exchanging a few more brief kisses as their heart-rates returned to normal.

‘I’d invite you back to mine for champagne,’ Armand said, ‘but I haven’t actually got any in, and…’ he hesitated.

‘It’s fine,’ Jean said, ‘I’m very happy to take things slow.’

Armand quirked his eyebrow, ‘perhaps not as slow as all that,’ he said, leaning in demandingly for another kiss.

They stood there for a long while, in the dark, the only sounds the soft rushing of the wind over the dunes and the faint sound of bells from Portbail.

**Author's Note:**

> Portbail is a real town in Normandy, but I have altered and enlarged it for the purposes of this story. 
> 
> I have very limited experience of the French education system and it shows, I apologise for my errors, they were necessary for the plot. 
> 
> Definitions:   
> Périphérique: The dual carriageway that rings the city of Paris, it's a bastard to navigate.   
> Lycee: A French high school   
> Rentrée: The term used to describe the start of the school year and more broadly the return to work after the summer holiday. Traditionally celebrated by going mad in the stationery aisle of your local supermarket.   
> Kir Normand: A traditional Normandy aperitif made by adding a splash of Cassis (a blackcurrant liqueur) to cider. It's very good unless you're too heavy-handed with the Cassis, at which point it just starts tasting like Ribena.


End file.
